


this love, it is a distant star

by besidemethewholedamntime



Series: at the end of the day all i need is you [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Royalty AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besidemethewholedamntime/pseuds/besidemethewholedamntime
Summary: "It's Jemma, he wants to cry. It’s the person who holds his heart, his thoughts, whose very smile ignites a fire between his ribs. She’s so much more than what they make her out to be, and he’d scream it from the rooftops if he thought it would make any difference at all."When there's an attempt on Jemma's life, she and Fitz have to try to come to terms with what a royal life really means. A little bit angsty but with a happy ending. Part of my modern royalty AU.
Relationships: Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons
Series: at the end of the day all i need is you [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934755
Comments: 49
Kudos: 94





	1. can we keep what we've only just begun?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zuziuchna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zuziuchna/gifts).



> Hello! It's been a while for this universe, hasn't it? Well, it's been a bit more of a while for those reading it, because I have been frantically writing for it before everything gets so busy so I can give you at least something over the winter!
> 
> This is for Zuza, because you're an absolutely wonderful bean who made such lovely banners for this fic, and you deserve a present just for being you <3
> 
> Just a disclaimer to say that this is really self-indulgent and I know it's not what you've been wanting but I just couldn't help myself >_< I promise happier times are coming though, and this does have a happy ending, but I wanted to post this first. It's in two parts for no other reason than it's a bit too long for one go and two parts might make it easier to read. I'll post part two tomorrow though so don't worry about where it cuts off!
> 
> The title is from 'into the open air' from the Brave soundtrack which I know I've already used for another fic but I didn't use this specific line so I feel like it's totally okay, right?
> 
> I hope you enjoy it <3

London is in chaos, and yet he manages to slice through it like a hot knife. Everybody moves in the wrong direction, creating unnecessary friction, and the city that usually moves like a river, flowing as one, is instead a cacophony of angry waters, and it’s only a matter of time before there’s a tsunami.

The hospital is in lockdown, but it’s Met Police on the door and he is in no mood to mess around. A stroke of luck means he has his ID with him and that, plus a well-told lie about needing entry on the order of his father, means that he is not only allowed in but also told what floor she is on. He races away before he can utter a thank you, and the officer will later remark to her colleague that she expected the son of General Fitz, Chief of the General Staff of the British Army, to be more in control.

Fitz doesn’t care what they think of him as he races to the lifts, only to punch the wrong number, his hand shaking that much. There’s a media frenzy outside, but inside is decidedly cool and calm and completely the opposite of how he feels. There’s a fist in his chest, squeezing his heart, and it’s as though every beat he feels pulsing through his head could be his last.

He’s never been here before and he’s not the best at navigating. Jemma makes jokes about it all the time. An Oxford man like him should be able to at least tell what direction he is going in, is what she says. Or said. _No, Fitz, don’t go there._ Yet he can’t help himself. Ever since he had seen the breaking news banner interrupt the mindless antiques programme they had playing in the office, he can’t stop himself from imagining all of the worst possible things, and with the way they play behind his eyelids every time he blinks it’s a wonder he can see straight at all.

 _Shots fired at new aqueduct opening! Duchess of York rushed to hospital!_ His phone had been ringing when the scheduled broadcast had been interrupted, and when he had seen it was his father, he’d declined it. Then it had rung again. He knows now it was the man trying to be decent in a way that he’s never quite managed before, but by the time Fitz had eventually answered it was too late. He’d seen the news. The words wouldn’t come, his breath was stuck in his throat, and all that he could do was stand there as his father, ever the military man, rattled off details in his ear and before he hung up, told him to go and do whatever he needed to do.

 _Duchess of York rushed to hospital. HRH, Princess Jemma taken for medical attention. First in line for the throne seeking help._ He wants to shout at all of the various things he’s seen and heard on the way over here. _It’s Jemma_ , he wants to cry, until his voice is hoarse and his throat is raw. It’s _Jemma._ It’s his best friend, his partner, his lover, his pseudo-fiancée, the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with and curl his bones around in the grave. It’s the person who holds his heart, his thoughts, whose very smile ignites a fire between his ribs. She’s so much more than what they make her out to be, and he’d scream it from the rooftops if he thought it would make any difference at all.

She may be more than just the heir to the throne, but that’s also exactly what she is, and it’s the reason why they’re here today. Nobody would have shot at her if she weren’t one of the most famous people on the planet, and it’s another reason for him to hate the establishment and everything it stands for. He’s an upper-class man from upper-class parents, and yet his greatest dreams are leaving the city and the money and all of it behind. He’d leave in a second if he thought he could take Jemma with him. A life without her is not something he wishes to know.

Right now, however, it is exactly what he faces, and as he manages to get to the top of the hospital floor, passing more police officers on his way, he can’t stop thinking of it. He instantly knows what ward to enter, Met Police switching to the private security officers after the double doors, and they eye him warily but let him pass, knowing who he is the moment they see him. He tries to scan their faces as he passes, scrutinising them for some small clue, but they remain as they always are, blank and impassive.

Jemma’s door has two guards outside it. He knows it’s hers because Tom stands outside of it, and he knows Tom’s face very well. For as long as he can remember, Tom has been standing outside of Jemma’s doors, at the foot of Jemma’s stairs and by Jemma’s side. _Where were you today?_ Fitz wonders, a sudden desire to grab the man who stands at 6ft 5’ with the square jaw and wide shoulders. _All of the time you spend watching her with me, where were you when she actually needed you the most?_

He doesn’t, though, because it would do no good, and no matter who his father may be, he would still find himself on his arse in the hospital car park. So he straightens his shoulders and walks with purpose up to Tom and the unknown woman who stands with him.

“I want to see her.”

He tries to speak firmly and with purpose, the way his father would speak, but it wavers slightly at the end. His heart still pounds in his chest. The cool calmness that pervades the ward has no effect on him.

Tom’s face does not look as though he were ever affected. “I’m afraid that will not be possible, sir.”

“I want to see her,” he says again in a harder tone, stepping closer to the man. “I want to see her now.”

Tom does not even twitch, and it’s the woman next to him who answers, “That will not be possible under the circumstances.” Her eyes are steely grey. “Only medical personnel are permitted either in or out.”

“I’m her family,” he tries, nearly about to fall off the precipice he’s been balancing on the edge of this whole time.

“That’s not true,” the woman replies, and he knows without a doubt that in the case of him and Jemma versus her family, this woman pledges her allegiance to the latter.

“I will tell Her Royal Highness that you were here, Mr Fitz,” Tom tells him, and Fitz thinks he might be trying to be kind, but it’s too late. Until he sees Jemma, until he has touched her, then there is no chance in hell he is leaving this place.

“I’m not going,” he says obstinately. “I’m not. You’ll have to physically carry me if you want me to go.” Tom looks at him as though that wouldn’t be a problem, but he shakily continues on. “I have just seen what happened on TV. I have just heard the BBC say they’re preparing a highlight reel in case she dies. There is no bloody way that I’m leaving here until I see for myself that she’s alright.”

Operation Spinning Top, that’s what she called it. A very specific plan that Jemma had told him about in the early days of their relationship, when they’d just moved from best friends to something more. _It’s the codename for when there’s an attempt on a member of the core family’s life_. _Named for the way everything would spin out and spin on,_ she’d told him as they’d lain in the grass of the palace grounds, her head resting on his chest as she grinned up a him. _I came up with it myself._

Tom just looks at him, facial expressions not changing in the slightest. He must know -surely, he must know- that Jemma needs him. He can’t let her be alone at a time like this. He’s just about to plead his case again when Tom flinches for a second, and Fitz just notices the earpiece before Tom presses his fingers to it and says into his wrist, “It’s Braveheart requesting access to The Rose, sir.”

Fitz barely registers what he assumes to be his codename, just that there’s finally something happening. Tom says _mhmm_ and then there’s a small twitch at the right corner of his mouth before he says, “You can go in, Mr Fitz.”

He goes to open the door but Fitz can’t wait and pushes past him, barrelling in before the permission is revoked. Terrible images rush through his head in those few seconds it takes for his eyes to adjust from the dimly lit hallway into the bright sunshine inside Jemma’s room. It’s all so real that when he _finally_ lays eyes on her, standing up as she is, he almost doesn’t believe it.

One arm is in a sling and there’s a bruise forming on the side of her head, but the relief that’s surging through his veins means that she is the most perfect sight in all the world.

“Jemma!” He crosses the distance between them in a millisecond, pressing her to him. “Oh, thank God. Thank God you’re alright.” Then he pulls back and starts running his eyes over her, touching her hair, her arm, her shoulders, checking for something he’s missed. “You are alright, right? You’re not badly hurt?”

Her eyes are watery. “I’m alright.” Her voice is shaky. “I have a broken arm and a sore head but that’s it.”

“Thank God,” he breathes, and pulls her close to him once more, feeling in this moment that he’ll never have enough of her ever again.

It’s only then he notices the room around him. The protection officer standing in the corner, doing absolutely nothing to blend in with the white hospital walls. The made-up bed, only rumpled at the ends from where Jemma’s been sitting on it. The sunlight that comes through the huge window, lighting them all up in a magnificent golden glow.

He doesn’t want to cry and he knows if they stay like this then he will, so he lets Jemma pull her head back slightly. With a very cautious and gentle thumb, he sweeps the hair away from her forehead and presses his lips softly to the deep purple bruise forming there.

Jemma closes her eyes for a second, as if savouring something she thought she would never have again. “I’m alright,” she says again, and her voice is softer now. “It’s nothing serious.”

“Luckily,” he tells her, not even moving to let her go. Jemma’s good arm is still around his waist, and he relishes the weight of it there. “Where did you get these?”

“Tom tackled me when the – when it happened. It was so quick and straight onto the pavement and I didn’t have time to brace myself.” She gives him a weak smile. “He used to play rugby apparently. I feel sorry for whoever was on the opposing team.”

Fitz would as well on a usual day, but he is in no mood for jokes. There’s still anxiety thrumming through his veins, and he can still feel the fist in his chest. He can’t imagine it ever abating. Jemma looks up at him as though expecting a smile, but he can’t manage it.

“It was on the news,” he says in a strangled voice. “Your tackle. Thought you might have been shot.”

Just then there’s a cough from the corner, and the protection officer nods towards them. “I’m going outside, your royal highness.” He strides towards the door without looking back. Fitz had forgotten he was there but he can’t find it within himself to be embarrassed at his emotional outburst. He defies anybody to see what he had seen about the person they love most and not do the same.

Jemma looks entirely unaffected, and it’s another reminder of how very different their situations are. She is used to other people witnessing the most private parts of her life.

“I wasn’t shot,” she tells him. “Nowhere near close. I promise you.” She presses her hand against his chest for a second, before disengaging and moving away towards the window. Even from all the way up here the media frenzy is still audible. He wishes he could say it was because they cared about whether Jemma was alright, but he knows they don’t, or barely if they do. They are sharks circling the water, desperately hoping there will be a drop of blood.

“I don’t know. It seemed pretty bloody close.” He runs a hand through his hair, the footage from the news replaying in his mind.

“It wasn’t.” Jemma’s tone is sharp and she closes her eyes briefly before opening them. She smiles at him and his blood freezes. It’s a reflexive turning up of the lips, nothing more. She never smiles at him like that.

He says nothing and she turns to the window. “All of this attention… it’ll be on the news for days. I can’t believe it happened. At an aqueduct opening of all places!” She chuckles but he knows it’s forced. “I mean is there anything more embarrassing?”

Fitz can’t believe his ears. He was expecting upset and anger, not this detachedness from the situation. Does she just not understand the magnitude, or is she deliberately removing herself from it?

Very carefully he says, “I don’t really think now is the time for jokes.”

“Why not?” Jemma gives a one-armed shrug. “It’s not like there’s anything else to do about it.”

“I think there’s a few things we could do about it. Do they know who did it? Do they know why?” he looks at her imploringly. “Is it still even safe for you to be here?”

“There’s no place safer, I can assure you,” she says. “And there’s really nothing to do, Fitz. Or nothing we can do anyway. The best thing to do is just to move on with it.”

“Move on?” He feels his eyebrows rise into his hairline. “That is _not_ the best thing to do.”

“Well what would you suggest then?” Her eyes narrow into slits as she glares at him. “Really, I’d love to hear your ideas.”

He has no ideas of what to do, but it doesn’t mean that her way is right. He might not be an expert on Royal assassination attempts, but he is almost sure that the _chin up and pretend it isn’t happening_ method is not what they would recommend.

He flounders and she sighs, shaking her head. Her hair was probably curly this morning for the event, but now it’s just bedraggled. The flowery dress she was wearing is ripped and stained with grass and mud, and he can see which way Tom has thrown her from the marks made. Considering what could have happened, the alternative room he could have been standing in right now, it’s a small price to pay, but it’s also a real, visible reminder of just how close they came.

“Jemma-”

“No, just – just no, alright? There’s nothing we can do and there’s no point in thinking about it.”

“Isn’t there? I mean someone just tried to _kill_ you less than an hour ago. It’s a pretty big thing.”

She scoffs. “It’s like you want it to be big. You want me to feel all horrible and miserable about the fact.”

“Of course I don’t,” he snaps. “I just want you to acknowledge what just happened.”

“Just because I’m not like you and I-”

“It’s nothing to do with that! You almost died,” he says, bewildered. “And if you’re telling me that you’re telling me that you can’t see the enormity of that then you’re lying.”

Jemma’s always been the more rational of the two of them. Ever since they were five years old that has been evident, and it’s something he loves about her. The calm efficiency with which she moves through life is enviable, but what’s usually so soothing to him is almost terrifying now. He doesn’t want her to be scared, but he wants her to acknowledge that it _is_ scary. It’s a big deal, whether she wants it to be or not.

“I don’t understand why you’re so bothered,” she says, and the borderline dismissive tone cuts him deeply, leaving something nasty to come leaking out.

“I thought you were _dead!_ ” He cries, wondering for a brief second if the security officers are going to come crashing through the door and tackle him, too. “I have just spent the whole journey here wondering if you were going to make it, wondering how I’d even live if you weren’t here anymore. _That’s_ why I’m so ‘bothered’ by it, Jemma.”

Jemma’s face softens. “It’s just the way it is,” she says. “It’s as much a part of my life as all the fancy gowns and crowns. It’s just another thing.”

“I get that.” Though he doesn’t, not entirely. “But that doesn’t erase the fact that what happened today is still a big deal, that it’s still okay for you to be upset about it.”

She chews her lip for a moment. “This happens a lot. If I got upset every time…”

He holds up a hand, too focused on the first sentence to understand any part of the next. “It happens a lot?”

She nods. “I mean, not as far as it went today, but there’s always a threat on my life. You know that.”

He had known that, or at least he thinks he had. The truth is that, usually, when they’re together, who they are just melts away, as though it doesn’t matter in the slightest. He’s known who she is their whole life, but today it has really hit home in the worst possible way.

Pinching the bridge of his nose tightly, he closes his eyes because for a second he doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go back to this morning, or yesterday, or the weekend when Jemma was in his arms and they watched films all day in bed, stealing time from those who don’t deserve her.

“I hope you don’t love me less because of this?” Jemma ventures, cautiously teasing.

He opens his eyes but has to immediately look away because the sight of her so bloody and bruised is too much for him right now. “I’ll love you forever but this…” Hands behind his neck as he blows out a breath, looking up at the ceiling tiles. “This is different.”

“It’s who I am,” Jemma tells him, and he can hear in her voice that she’s closing in on herself, retreating. He is usually the person she retreats to, and he’s getting a sense of just how lonely it is on the other side. “It’s part of me. Just because it’s a part you don’t like-”

“Who in their right bloody mind would like this, Jemma? Who would enjoy feeling like this?”

Because it feels like his heart has been ripped out and someone is mashing it with a fist on the table in front of him. It feels like the world is ending and nobody else seems to care. It feels like his whole life is just falling apart around him and he’s just frantically trying to save what he can before it smashes on the floor.

“It’s who I am.”

“It’s not fair!”

“It is what it is!”

He stares at her, frightened by her tone of voice.

“This is the way it is,” she says tightly, though the tremble in her voice and the shimmer in her eyes gives her away. “And you need to decide right now if it’s something you can live with.”

“Jemma…” he breathes, too scared to do anything more.

She takes a deep breath. “I realise that when you signed up for this you didn’t quite know all that you were signing up for. That when you told me you loved me you didn’t anticipate having to love me through this.”

“I love you,” he tells her, but it sounds cheap and hollow now. “I always will.”

“It’s not always enough though, Fitz, is it?” Jemma’s bottom lip trembles uncontrollably, though he sees the effort she makes to try. A tear slips down her cheek, and it’s the hardest thing in the world to resist wiping it away.

“No, Jemma, please. Don’t do this.” He shakes his head. “Don’t do this.”

“I suggest you take some time to think about it, to decide if you can really deal with this. Let me know when you do.”

It’s not a suggestion, though. It’s an order from the future Queen. The role she was born for, and the one that always keeps her slightly away from him.

He stands there, frozen on the spot, unable to do anything except breathe, as Jemma calls in one of her protection officers. Her voice is thick but entirely cold when she says, “Could you please escort Mr Fitz from the premises, and ensure that he doesn’t return.” Her eyes lock onto his for one, brief moment. “He has rather a lot of thinking to do.”


	2. to let the walls come crumbling down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He doesn’t even know what happened. He tries to replay the conversation over and over again, and wonders where the point was that sheer elation became indignance and refusal to see each other’s sides. Where did the sides even come in, anyway? Where was the moment when, all of a sudden, they were on opposing teams, looking at each other across the battlefield like sworn enemies instead of the allies they were supposed to be?"
> 
> The reconciliation. They just can't stay mad at each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so wonderfully thankful to all of you who have read and commented and kudosed and reblogged and liked the last chapter! I know it was a bit angsty and I wouldn't have been offended if you would have preferred to just skip it but I hope this makes up for what happened. I never can resist a happy ending :P
> 
> Once again for Zuza, who is the most lovely bean <3

He can’t go home, though it’s not like his father’s house or his small, boxy flat is home anyway. Home is where his heart is, and his heart is with the woman who can’t even stand the sight of his face.

He doesn’t even know what happened. He tries to replay the conversation over and over again, and wonders where the point was that sheer elation became indignance and refusal to see each other’s sides. Where did the sides even come in, anyway? Where was the moment when, all of a sudden, they were on opposing teams, looking at each other across the battlefield like sworn enemies instead of the allies they were supposed to be?

A hot July day turns into a pleasant July evening but, as he aimlessly wanders the streets of London, he can’t find it within himself to appreciate any of it. He tries hard to avoid any mention of Jemma and today’s events but it’s impossible. Her name buzzes in the warm air around him, and the anger and irritation that was present earlier melts away until it’s just guilt and regret, weighing heavily on his heart.

Hunter texts him. _Any inside scoop you can give me on what happened today?_ A self-described ‘journalist for the people!’ (exclamation mark included), he frequently asks Fitz for anything and everything he can tell him about the inner workings of the Establishment. Fitz usually doesn’t mind providing him with what he can - the deal between them stands that Hunter can have whatever he likes as long as Jemma isn’t in the firing line of his articles – but today’s just not the day. He really thought his cousin would have known better than that.

Fitz sends back a message with more expletives than he would usually dare, and the reply comes not even a minute later which is completely unlike his cousin. _Of course, mate. Was only joking. Never meant to upset you. Seriously, hope you and Jemma are okay._ And it just makes him feel worse.

Without meaning to he catches the chatter around him changing and, fearing the worst, he checks his phone. A breaking news banner declares that the princess has returned to the Palace having only sustained minor injuries from the event. It soothes Fitz a little, but not enough, and without even being fully aware of it, he finds himself heading in a direction that he probably shouldn’t go.

For he knows what he should do. He should go home and cool off, and then ask to see her tomorrow. He should give them both time to work out what’s happened and come back with a cool and clear head, ready to talk about it. It’s what a sensible adult would do, which is all fine and well, except he’s never really been all that sensible when it comes to her.

Tomorrow. He should do it tomorrow. But he can’t. He needs to see her now and work all of this out and know exactly where they stand when the sun goes down. If today has taught him anything, it’s that tomorrow is never fully guaranteed.

-x-

“You shouldn’t be here, son.”

Fitz doesn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed with the fact that Tom’s the one on the gate tonight. Not the main gate that the press and the public are still gathered around, settling in for the night as it begins to get dark. No, this is their private gate, completely unreachable unless you know what you’re looking for. It faces the guardroom, and for that reason there’s never someone permanently on it. Until tonight. A day of bloody changes, and none of them for the better.

“Please,” he says. “I just… I need to see her.”

There isn’t the same urgency as there was earlier, but there’s no hiding the pleading in his tone.

Tom sighs. “I have my orders.”

“I know you do, but she gave me mine, too. And I’ve done what she asked. I need to talk to her.” He darts his eyes to the left and right, but he’s not physically gifted and there’s no way he could make it before Tom would pull him down. Any attempt at skirting around him will end up with Fitz thrown over Tom’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes and marched all the way to his father’s house.

“Look could you just tell her I’m here, please? Just tell her I’m here. If she wants me to go then I’ll go then and we won’t have a problem. Otherwise, I’m staying here all night. It’s up to you.”

“I see why you two get along so well,” Tom says drily, and before Fitz can work out what to reply, he’s already turning away and going into the guardroom.

He’s only in there for a minute, but for Fitz it feels like a lifetime. When he comes out his face is still impassive as ever, and Fitz searches it eagerly for some tiny clue so he can prepare himself for whatever the man is about to say.

Tom seems to draw it out, waiting until he is right in front of Fitz before saying (slower than he usually speaks, Fitz is sure), “You can go in.” He raises an eyebrow. “I’d escort you up, but I’m assuming you already know the way?”

Fitz flushes deeply before he can help himself, and he mumbles, “Uh, yeah, I know where to go. Thanks.”

He swears there’s a smile on Tom’s face, or at least a resemblance of one, but then the man is opening the gate and Fitz is through it before anyone can change their mind.

He knows the way to her room by now. The journey is one he has made so many times over the years. It’s one he’s never done alone before, however, and as much as he is in a hurry, he notices it. The space beside him feels too big, even in these small servants’ corridors and the sound of footsteps on these thin servants’ carpets is too quiet.

It takes a minute or two of walking but eventually he makes it to a corridor that’s Jemma’s and Jemma’s alone. He knows it’s the right place, but even if he wasn’t sure he would know by the sight of Jemma standing outside her bedroom door.

Not saying a word, she stands aside and lets him in first, closing the door softly behind them. Unsure of what he should do, Fitz stands awkwardly in the centre of her room. It’s been a while since he’s been in here, and once again he is struck by just how large it is, and just how small Jemma is in the middle of it. Dressed in her pyjamas, with her damp hair falling around her face, arm still in a sling and the bruise on her face an alarming shade of purple, she looks much too fragile for this room, but Fitz knows more than anyone how looks can be deceiving.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be here,” Jemma begins. Her voice isn’t cold, quite the opposite. There’s something underneath that she’s fighting desperately hard to control.

It’s a feeling he knows well as he tries to keep his voice even when he says, “Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs with her good arm. “Drowning your sorrows with Hunter, I suppose. Wandering around London without actually going anywhere.”

“Did that earlier.” He gives a half smile, something he hopes lets her know that he doesn’t want to remain at odds with her, that he’s here as her Fitz, not her enemy.

Jemma nods. “Of course you did.” And then she gives him a small smile that lets him release a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I’m surprised you’re here so quickly. Usually when we’ve been fighting it’s at least more than eight hours until I see you again.”

Has it really only been eight hours since she banished him from her hospital room? It feels like he is a thousand years older than he was this morning. He swallows past the lump in his throat. “Yeah, didn’t really want to wait, you know? You never know what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

“No,” Jemma says, voice even. “You don’t.”

They regard each other for a long moment, this wariness between them new and unsettling. He is the first to look away, staring down at his shoes, wondering if he should be wearing them on her thick cream carpet.

“I’m glad you came.”

That has him looking up. Jemma’s wearing the expression on her face that is usually accompanied by the wringing of her hands, but being unable to she instead plays with her fingers one-handed. At the raising of his eyebrow she continues;

“I was going to come and see you but they wouldn’t let me out. I tried and tried but they said no, not until the media frenzy at the gate goes away. I phoned your flat and you weren’t there and I phoned your father’s house and they said they didn’t know.” She looks away from him. “I wasn’t sure you’d answer if I phoned you directly.”

“I would’ve,” he says quickly, before he even means to. Her eyes snap to him and he feels like he did when he was eighteen and hopelessly in love with her but trying not to let her know. “I always answer when it’s you.”

Jemma’s bottom lip begins to tremble. “I’m sorry, Fitz, for earlier.”

There’s such an ache within him to go over to her and hold her, but he knows it’s just not the moment yet. “So am I.”

She nods, face scrunching up a little in that way she does when she desperately doesn’t want to cry. “It’s just, well I suppose I’ve just been waiting for this. Waiting for you to realise that this is all too much and that it’s not the life you deserve and I couldn’t hear you say it so instead I said it for you and I think-” She takes a shaky breath. “I think I put the words in your mouth and said for you what you didn’t want to say at all.”

“Jemma,” he breathes, but nothing else comes after that.

“You tell me you love me but I think ‘how can anyone love this’? This life is horrible in parts and it’s cruel and unfair and I’ve just always been expecting, in some small part of my mind, that one day you’ll get scared off. And I just decided that today was going to be the day.”

“Oh, Jemma, no I – I didn’t mean what I said, alright? I didn’t, and I’m sorry. I wasn’t scared _off_ \- I could never be – I was just – I was just s _cared._ ”

The moment feels like a lifetime ago and yet also as though he’s still living in it. He can’t meet her eyes.“I could see what you were doing, taking one step back from it and acting like it didn’t bother you.” He resists an urge to scuff his toes against the floor. “And the reason that I was so bothered by it was that you usually do that with other people.” Looking up at her, he tries to keep the plaintive tone out of his voice when he says, “You don’t keep things like that from me.”

It’s in Jemma’s nature to bottle things up and act as though she isn’t fazed by anything this life throws at her. In her nature and something that has always been encouraged by her family, for how does the crown stay on top if everything underneath is falling apart? He can’t blame her for it, and he wouldn’t, for he knows it’s one of the only ways to survive. 

It’s just that she’s always been open with him. Nothing is secret between the two of them, everything is shared. For the past twenty years they have spent as much as their lives allow right by each other’s side and the fact that today, when arguably it mattered most, she withdrew and acted as though he were someone other than who he is has frightened him, and left him worrying about things that ordinarily he would never have worried about at all.

“I thought you trusted me with your feelings,” he says quietly, a little uncomfortable at this kind of honesty that’s never been required before. “And when you didn’t I was hurt and I pushed you and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.

“Oh, Fitz,” Jemma whispers, as though his words have pushed all the air from her lungs. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s that you’re the only one I trust.” She looks away and then back at him, and he feels he could almost fall down from the look in her eyes. “I’m just not used to it and today… well, today…”

It’s enough, and in a heartbeat he has closed the very small space between them and taken her in his arms, her head tucking underneath his chin in the space that is hers and hers alone. There are no more words, there doesn’t need to be, and he just holds her quietly as she sniffles into his shirt and his own tears fall into her hair. Today has been a test, he is sure of it, but it’s one he feels like they have passed.

“I love you,” he tells her eventually, his arms still around her. He feels like he never wants to let her go again. “And today doesn’t change that. Nothing is ever going to change that.”

She looks up at him, tears clinging to her lashes. In her face is everything he knows she won’t say, but it’s alright. He hears it anyway. “I love you, too.”

He chuckles, using his thumb to gently brush away a tear from underneath her eye. With a lightness that isn’t forced at all, he says, “So my codename is Braveheart, huh?”

She laughs, and though it’s wet it is entirely real. “Unfortunately. I didn’t have any say in the matter.”

“Could they not have picked anything else? That film is so inaccurate it hurts, Jemma.” He makes a face. “It’s the _worst_.”

“I agree with you, but it wasn’t up to me. It’s just who you’ve always been.” She shrugs. “And it could be worse.”

It’s hard to see how. Braveheart is painful viewing, and the thought of being associated with it in any way leaves a pinching feeling in his chest.

At his raised eyebrow, Jemma just raises her own and says, “Your father’s.”

“Oh, God. What is it? Do I even want to know?”

She shakes her head. “No, maybe you don’t. I think it would just upset you even more.”

He dreads to think of what it could be, possibly another insulting name related to his nationality, but before he can say anything to it, Jemma is tilting her head up and pressing the softest kiss to his lips.

“Anyway, Fitz, yours is very fitting. I happen to think you have a very brave heart.”

He groans with a smile and kisses her back. “Alright then. Suppose I can live with it.

“Good,” she smiles against his lips, “because I don’t think they’ll change it any time soon.”

No, they probably won’t, but he’ll be Braveheart forever if he gets to stay in her life. Now more than ever he wants it to be only the two of them.

“I think we should go away together.”

Jemma frowns up at him. “Go where?”

“Somewhere. Anywhere. I don’t care.” He kisses her on the forehead. “A place where it’s just you and me and nobody else.”

“And how would we manage that?”

All day he has felt fragile, as though the smallest thing would cause him to shatter. Now, however, he feels invincible. He feels like he could go downstairs just now and take her whole family on, dare them to do their worst.

“We could manage it,” he says fervently, and in this moment he truly believes it. “We can manage anything.”

She hums, leaning her head against his chest. “While a holiday does sound lovely, Fitz, there is something right now I would dearly love more.”

“And what would that be?”

“I want to go to sleep.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” He lets go of her reluctantly. “I’ll, uh, I’ll get out of your hair then. Come and see you tomorrow and that. Hopefully they’ll let me in and-”

“Fitz.”

“What?”

She looks at him as though he’s an idiot, and he thinks he couldn’t love her more. “I want you to stay.”

“What, really?” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. “It’s just, well I thought I wouldn’t be allowed and-”

“Fitz,” she says, laughing. A sound he thought he’d never hear again. “Have you actually been allowed to do anything you’ve done today?”

He must look guilty, for she laughs again. “I want you here, and I don’t care whatever they have to say about it. So please,” she looks at him imploringly, “will you stay?”

After today he never wants to leave her ever again. “Yeah,” he says, heart a wet lump in his throat. He kisses her on the forehead again. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading - I hope you enjoyed this! Please feel free to leave kudos/comments. Please feel free not to. Either way, I hope you have a lovely day and are all managing to stay safe and well in this crazy world <3


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